A Lighthouse at Sea
by Inisfree
Summary: John isn't just a conductor of light. Sometimes, he shines for those adrift in the storms too. One-shot.


The jingling of keys were faint in his mind, sort of like tinkling wind chimes in a light breeze. The real world became more apparent to Sherlock, absorbing him from his mind palace and back into 221B. John was stuffing his keys into his pocket. "I'll be going out for a while, Sherlock. Got to get the milk," he said, drily adding, "since you left it empty for me this morning."

Sherlock acknowledged him with the barest tilt of his head. "Hmm. Could you get some sulphur dioxide for me?"

"They don't sell that at the grocer's, Sherlock," reminded John, shrugging his jacket on. "Don't burn the flat down while I'm gone. I'm renting the other half of it." Sherlock listened to his footsteps, dying away as he went down the steps – 1, 2, 3… all 17 of them. The door slammed shut. John was gone.

Left to his own, Sherlock got up from where he was nestled on the couch and went into the kitchen. He briefly surveyed the remains of last night's study in several poisons and drugs before deciding there wasn't much he had left to do. And he wasn't going to clean up any of that either.

He did not have a case to work on, since the last one was a rather big scandal involving a government official and some politicians with names that bore some sensitivity. Lestrade was caught up in all the paperwork as was the entire Yard, such that the latest call from Sherlock was answered with a suggestion that Sherlock helped with the red tape if he really wanted something to do.

After playing some listless tune on the violin, Sherlock was fresh out of ideas what to do. The detective flopped onto the couch, mentally cursing the criminal underground and its lack of creativity. He was still on the couch, before a thought crept into his mind.

They only lay within his reach underneath the couch, hidden in a slipper.

Sherlock shook his head. He wasn't _that_ desperate yet. John was still convinced that Sherlock had broken the habit months ago; it wouldn't do now for John to find out that he _hadn't._ Though many things managed to escape John, he was sharp enough to match the lingering smell of nicotine in the living room.

His thoughts drifted towards his past cases, and Sherlock found himself wandering the halls of his mind palace again. _Dull, _he thought to himself as a case of a three-way love affair flitted past. _Boring,_ he declared of a framed chess master. _No,_ as a client huffed and stormed out of the mind palace, raging at the rejection of her case.

Something hot, wet and slimy licked his hand, and Sherlock stopped. He looked down disbelievingly and stared at the eyes of a companion he had pushed far into the corners of his mind. And for the longest time, Sherlock stared at him, stock still within the corridors of his mind palace and unsure of what to do.

Redbeard was looking at him with pleading eyes and a wagging tail that begged for a pat on the head. Why? Why now? What spurred a memory so safely hidden like this? Sherlock had no answer.

"Go away," he hissed. "Not now."

The memory was banished, but that was when he was swept away by a torrent of memories - disconnected and connected, long ago and present, important and useless.

_Biting her fingers nervously – signs of agitation, guilt – she's covering up something._

_… tapping his finger on the table – impatient, what's he hiding?_

_Tan lines and missing wedding ring. Just recent, judging by the shade of the tan lines compared to the light band around the finger…_

Stop.

_… the knife was out of place, it was put there, on purpose. To frame the suspect, obviously. Who, who?_

Just stop.

_It was a woman, had vast experience with drugs, she knew which one to pick. The Woman was in New York by now, though the last he heard of her was in Michigan – read something in the papers about an unknown woman preying on lonely men probably making her way to Texas after that_

He could almost _hear_ his mind whirring as he battled against the thoughts that streamed incessantly. His mind was a car on rocket fuel - too much to handle and too much to process and too much _information._ Sherlock's eyes blinked as he automatically observed his surroundings, each bringing with it new data to filter.

_John's sister was on the bottle again evident by the sighs he had heard all week Mrs Hudson's been chatting up the elderly bookstore keeper on the street behind The couple at Mrs Turners' had a row again but it's unlikely they were going to divorce The books on his shelf had been moved twice no four times by John and once by Mrs Hudson_

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, attempting to switch off the world and its appearance, sounds, textures, fragrance, _everything_ but it only seemed to be amplified by his senses. He felt his hand creeping down to the bottom of the couch for the hidden slipper and the cigarettes it held. He desperately needed a smoke.

_His socks have been rearranged again John must have been tipped off by Mycroft losing his touch_

Jingling keys. The shut of the door. Footsteps. "Sherlock?"

_Silence._

* * *

Author's Note: Many thanks to the fantastic Ruby Casablanca who was my beta for this fic. Without her help, this would be a messy jumble of improper grammar and embarrassing errors.

Thank you for reading! I hope this was enjoyable. Constructive criticism is very much welcome - improvements always are.


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